Which woke him. Eyes open, dark with emotion, his lips tightened, thinned. ‘And of course, as you well know, I have nothing to lose.’
I had not intended to spur so bitter a reaction, and did not fully understand it, but regretful of my thoughtlessness I sought for a less contentious issue. ‘Tell me what it is like to be Welsh, living in England. Is it any different from being French and living here?’
But he would not say beyond ‘I expect the English regard us all as foreigners out of the same disreputable bag’. I couldn’t persuade him further.
‘Then tell me about your family,’ I said. ‘You know all about mine. Tell me about your Welsh ancestors.’
It was a question destined to curtail even the mildest of confidences. He would not.
‘It is like searching for meat in a Lenten pie!’
‘Let it lie, Katherine,’ he whispered. ‘It is not important. It has no bearing on us.’
Nothing about his life before his arrival at Henry’s Court could be squeezed out of him. I gave up and lived in the moment, sinking into the joy of it, except that there was one issue I was compelled, against all sense, to raise. I placed my hand on his chest, where his heart beat.
‘You did not like Edmund Beaufort, did you?’
It was a ghost between us, maliciously hovering, that I felt the need to exorcise, even if it resulted in Owen condemning me for my lack of judgement. I recalled the disdain that had clamped Owen’s mouth on a former occasion when I had not understood. And as if he sensed my trepidation, Owen rolled, gathering me up into his arms so that he could look at me, his initial response surprising me by its even-handedness.
‘He is a man of ability and wit with a powerful name and inheritance. I expect he will be a great politician and a first-rate soldier and an asset to England.’ Then his arms tightened round me. ‘I detested him. He saw your vulnerability and the chance for his personal gain, and he laid siege.’
Held tight against his chest, I turned my face into him. ‘I am sorry.’
His arms tightened further. ‘I don’t blame you.’
‘But I do. I should have seen what he was, what he wanted. I was warned often enough.’
‘You were just a witless female.’ He kissed me, stopping my words when I would have objected. ‘How could you know? Beaufort could charm the carp out of the fish pond and onto the plate, complete with sauce and trimmings.’ A little silence fell. ‘He did not charm me. But
‘What does—?’
His mouth captured mine, his body demanded my obedience to his and I gave it willingly.
We never spoke of Edmund Beaufort again. He was no part of my life now, and never would be again.
‘When did you first love me?’ I asked, as any woman must when first deluged in emotion.
‘When I first came to your household. I cannot recall a time when I did not love you.’
Drowsing, we knew our snatched moment together was rushing to a close. The daily routine at Windsor, the final service of Compline to end the day, claimed us back from our bright idyll.
‘How did I not know?’ I asked, trying to remember Owen in those days after Henry’s death.
His lips were soft against my hair, my temple. ‘Your thoughts were trapped in desolation. Why would you notice a servant?’
I pushed myself so that I could read his face. ‘And yet you were content to serve me, knowing that I did not
Owen’s smile was wry, so were his words. ‘Content? Never that. Sometimes I felt the need to shout my love from the battlement walk, or announce it from the dais, along with the offering of the grace cup. But there was no future in it, or so I thought. I was simply there to obey your commands and—’
I stopped his words with my fingers. ‘I am ashamed,’ I whispered.
Owen’s kiss melted the shame from my heart.
I glowed. I walked with a light step as my heart sang. Light of his life, he had called me. I could not imagine such happiness.
‘He makes you content, my lady,’ Beatrice observed carefully.
‘Yes.’ I did not pretend to misunderstand her. ‘Is there gossip?’
‘No.’
I thanked the Holy Mother for her inexplicable kindness as I lived every day for the time when Owen would blow out the candle and we would be enclosed in our world that was neither English nor French nor Welsh.
‘What is our future?’ I asked one morning when, in the light of a single candle and before the household was awake, Owen struggled, cursing mildly, into tunic and hose.
‘I don’t know. I have no gift for divination.’ Applying himself to his belt in the near darkness, he looked across to where I still lay in tangled linens, and seeing the gleam of fear in my eyes, he abandoned the buckle and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘We will live for the present. It is all we have, and it is enough.’
‘Yes. It is enough.’
‘I will come to you when I can.’
He took my lips with great sweetness. I loved him enough, trusted him enough, to put myself and our uncertain future into his care. How foolish we were to believe that we could control what fate determined.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
